


King Of The Leopards

by Len0306a



Category: Black Panther (2018), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Kinda, King Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles & Okoye Friendship, Stiles Isn't related to John, Stiles-eccentric, Werecreature Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-29 15:45:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13930221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Len0306a/pseuds/Len0306a
Summary: Stiles isn't Stiles. Stiles wasn't born in Beacon Hills, and he isn't exactly...human. He's considered a king, and he has to live up to the title.





	1. Who Are You Really?

**Author's Note:**

> Do you guys want any ships in this? Like T'Challa/Stiles or Stiles/Okoye? 
> 
> Also! I'm sorry for not uploading but depressions hitting me hard and I I'm going to have to take antidepressants (probably) so until then I don't think my upload schedule will be normal until then. BUT! If you have any fic you wanna see please ask me on my Tumblr, Len0306a.

It starts off as a pack meeting. That’s how it always starts. An announcement of the latest Big Bad, and then the pack decides how to deal with it. So it started off like normal, everyone talking about something random to each other, with Derek brooding in the corner and Stiles is raiding fridge like always.

 

Once everyone settled down, they started talking. An ‘animal attack’, like always. Except, the police found panther DNA in the scratches. Of course, everyone in the pack thought it was a werepanther, which was the most logical choice. Except Stiles knew what it was, and knew who killed a man wanted for murder.

 

Stiles knew he was out of time, knew he was going to be forced back to a place he couldn’t remember. Stiles sat through the whole stay safe speech, and started gathering his old research. If T’Chaka was already here, then he was going to grab Stiles as soon as possible.

 

“Stiles! What’s wrong?” Scott asked Stiles, stupid, kind Scott that he’d have to leave behind when he went home. Stiles let out a nervous chuckle, straightening up his papers and turning to his friend.

 

“Uhh...Just have someone I need to talk to.” He smiled apologetically, trying not to lie to someone he cared about. Everyone in the pack turned to him, questioning his frantic heart rate and vague story.

 

“Can you call them and tell them to wait? We have to talk before you go.” Scott looked confused but genteel, a contagious smile that spread across his face. Stiles shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. “Can it wait until tomorrow? It’s really important that I talk to my friend. He doesn’t have a phone.”

 

Scott shook his head, confusion spreading across everyone’s faces at Stiles’ odd behavior. Scott opened his mouth to speak or protest, but stopped. His head tilted up, face growing more and more puzzled as he stared at the ceiling. Stiles grew pale but grabbed his bag, discarding his papers as unneeded.

 

“Do you guys hear an….Engine?” Scott said, looking at the pile of ‘wolves all lying on the floor. They nodded, listening to Black Panther’s jet land.

 

“Well!” Stiles exclaimed suddenly, “I’ve really gotta go, so I’ll see you whenever!” Stiles tried to get the the door before T’Chaka got there, but he heard the Dora Milaje’s general, Okoye, speaking.

 

Stiles turned back around to his brother, smiling regretfully. “I’m sorry.” Stiles said, before Black Panther walked in, along with Okoye and Nakia. Stiles fell to one knee, bowing down to Wakanda’s king with his arms crossed over his chest.

 

The Black Panther was in a full suit, Okoye in her armor, and Nakia with her ring blades. The suit fell away from Wakanda’s king, T’Challa standing in its place.

 

“T’Challa? Where’s T’Chaka?” Stiles said, confusion lacing his words. T’Challa regarded him with sympathy, and announced, “Stand, Mstislav. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you. And T’Chaka has died by Ulysses Klaw. I am the king now.”

 

Stiles nodded to T’Challa’s words, a look of nostalgia sweeping over his features. “He was an amazing king.”

 

“Stiles? What’s going on?” Lydia took that moment to interrupt their conversation, an irritated look on her face. Stiles paused, and looked at T’Challa for guidance. T’Challa smiled warmly while Okoye brought out her spear, a terrifying look on her face. T’Challa settled Okoye with a hand on her shoulder before speaking, “You must be who our dear Mst- Stiles has met. I am T’Challa, king of Wakanda. I was Stiles’ old friend.”

 

T’Challa turned back to Stiles, speaking in Xhosa. “ _We have revealed our resources to the nations, and I will need your help. Your father, Mikhail, has passed; Mstislav, you are next to the throne._ ”

 

Stiles stared at T’Challa, a look of utter horror on his face. “ _I was not raised to be a king. I was raised to be a spy, like Nakia_.” Said women looked at Stiles with an almost apologetic expression. “ _Everyone’s being pulled from the mission to help with mining and negotiations. You are the last one._ ”

 

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at Okoye, who just shrugged with a bored expression.

 

“ _May I tell my friend’s what is happening._ ” Stiles asked, eyes never straying from T’Challa. The king nodded while Okoye shook her head with passion. Stiles regarded Okoye’s opinion with a grain of salt, turning towards his closest friends, his pack.

 

“There’s something I haven’t told you.” Stiles said in English, “The sheriff isn’t my real father. My father’s name was Mikhail, king of Krasnoyarsk, Russia. I am his only son, Mstislav; he has died recently. T’Challa is my childhood friend, King of Wakanda, Africa. I have to go back to Russia...as soon as possible.”

 

Jackson took this as a chance to mock him, “Yeah, and I’m the King of fucking Australia. Where’d you hire these actors?” Lydia slapped him on the chest, scorning him for his insensitive comment. Okoye moved fast, pulling out her spear once more to hold it against his neck. She turned to T’Challa, “Should I kill him?”

 

T’Challa sighed and shook his head, “He is a friend of Mstislav.”

 

“Actually, he isn’t my friend.” Stiles piped up, smiling at Okoye. “But thank you for defending my honor.” Okoye smiled at him, a smile he remembered from his childhood, and Stiles smiled right back.

 

“You’ve been lying to us this whole time?” Scott said weakly, a look of pure betrayal on his face. T’Challa beat him to the punch, “Mstislav was told not to tell anyone of his status, unless he was forced.”

 

Everyone looked shocked, but didn’t speak. They didn’t ask when they’d see him again, didn’t object to him leaving. St- Mstislav nodded, a grim look on his face, before turning to T’Challa. “I don’t need anything from my house, so I am ready to leave.” T’Challa nodded, before turning to Nakia. She pulled something from her armor, a necklace, before handing it to T’Challa.

 

“Shuri made new suits, including mine. This,” T’Challa said, holding up the necklace, “Is your new suit.” Mstislav nodded, bowing his head down as T’Challa placed the jewelry around his neck. “An Amur Leopard.” T’Challa answered his silent question, a small smile on his face.

 

T’Challa’s suit appeared around his body, T’Challa motioning for Mstislav to do the same. Mstislav touched his necklace, a white suit with light yellow spots on the shoulders and legs. The ears were round, unlike T'Challa's. Mstislav turned to his pack, “I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

 

With that T’Challa and Mstislav and left, Nakia and Okoye trailing behind with grim expressions.

 

After the pack heard Sti- Mstislav leave, Erica spoke up, “What was Stiles doing behind his back?” The pack all turned to her with confusion, a clear question. “Look!” Erica said, exasperated.

 

She walked to the door, where Mstislav stood a minute ago, and opened it. A slip of paper, as big as a finger, flipped and twirled through the air before landing in the middle of the room. Scott lunged for it, grasping it before reading what was on it. It was a phone number, that had ‘EMERGENCY CONTACT’ scrawled on top of it.

 

“Should we call it?” Isaac piped up next to Boyd, sounding almost bored about the whole Stiles bomb. Scott shook his head, a look pure determination on his face. “We’ll only call if something...horrible happens.”

 

The pack look at him like he was stupid, but Mstislav would still be on that...Jet? They’d blow his cover.

 

“Why do you think he didn’t show T-T’C-T’Challa him writing it? He wasn’t supposed to, but he did. We’ll only call him if it’s emergency.” Scott’s eyes flashed a crimson red, and everyone’s eyes flashed back in response.

 

“Okay! Who’s up for pizza?”


	2. Friendly Battle And Their End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa and Nakia talk about their relationship; Mstislav and Okoye spar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank the people fighting in the comments on Ch. 1 for stopping, but I'm not sure if I was to keep all of those comment. I want this to be a positive fic, but I want to see all of your opinions. Anyways, if you have a problem with my fic, please DM me on my Tumblr, Len0306a. 
> 
> Other than that, thank you for your comments. 
> 
> ALSO!!!!! Italics means that the characters are either talking in Xhosa or Russian, but probably Xhosa.

T’Challa stood there, watching Stiles sign paper after paper in pure exhaustion. Okoye was next to Stiles, standing tall and towering over the lithe man. Nakia was about to come back to the palace; Nakia was talking to the civilians about how they feel the kingdom should be run, and the problems within their community.

 

She returned shortly after Mstislav finished signing the papers, a look of decaying flowers on her face. T’Challa raised his eyebrow at her, a silent question of what happened.

 

“ _Come with me.”_ She said, a fluid clicking within their native language. T’Challa nodded, following the spy as she walked towards another room, a dining room of sorts. She was silent, waiting for T’Challa to talk first. “ _What has happened?”_

 

“ _We need to talk about, well, us.”_ She responded, nervousness flowing like a tidal wave from every pore. T’Challa didn’t want to discuss this now, or maybe ever, but he couldn’t just ignore it. He is a king, and he has to live up to the title.

 

“ _What, specifically, would you like to talk about?_ ” the question held wildfire fueled with gasoline and savannah grass, but caressed the harsh blow with soft words. She smiled lightly like a ray of sun, a look of empathy and dejection, “ _This, us, isn’t healthy, and may not work. I will be traveling the world, gathering information, while you go back to Wakanda. We will never see each other, and spite the other for it.”_

 

Her words were respectfully poetic, but burned all the same. T’Challa _knew that,_ knew that they couldn’t stay together, but still felt discomfort at her honest words.

 

“ _I understand._ ” T’Challa replied, about to speak more. “ _Do you?_ ” Nakia snapped at him, a willow-o’-the-wisp flaring bright under her skin and burning up anything kind swirling in her mind.

 

“ _I know that we cannot hold each other one moment, and tear each other apart the next._ ” T’Challa felt salt fall down her face, seeing the same expression written across her features.

 

She breathed in deeply, controlling her emotions, “ _I am sorry._ ” She said that as if it was her fault, as if she was blamed for the death of T’Chaka and T’Challa’s loss of his old status. “ _Do not apologize._ ” T’Challa said, instead of the hurricane of words inside his head.

 

“Let us go see how Mstislav is doing.” Nakia said, composed and in perfect English, and all T’Challa could do was nod.

  
  


Mstislav sighed, a deep long drawn out sigh that Okoye easily heard. “What is troubling you, Mstislav?” Okoye said, a look of concern buried beneath a rough expression.  Mstislav just sighed again, longer and drawn out than before, that turned into a deep, pitiful groan.

 

“Come with me.” Okoye said simplistically, the back of her armour swirling around like house fire, and Mstislav was unable to ignore it. He followed Okoye, confident legs stretching with packed on, hidden muscles. They finally reached their destination, a arena behind the palace that held weapons, armor, and shields. It was remarkable platform with designs of Leopards, bears, lynxes, and red deers dancing around each other in beautiful gold whisps.

 

“ _You want to spar?_ ” Mstislav said incredulously in Xhosa, raising his eyebrows in a challenge. Okoye nodded, pointing to an unnoticed shack along the palace walls: “ _Change into your amour in there_.” Okoye raised her eyebrow like Mstislav did, clearly mocking him for his attitude. Mstislav stared at her, slumping his shoulders as low as possible before heading to the armor rack.

 

“ _Why can’t I just wear my suit?”_ Mstislav whined to Okoye, still staring at the armor with desperation. Maybe if he stared at the armor long enough, she would let him have his suit. “ _If you want to become a warrior, you have to learn to fight without your abilities._ ”

 

Okoye’s response sounded like dull knives wrapped in bland, grey thorns. Mstislav huffed, snatching up a brown suit, with silver cuffs, gloves, boots, and belt. Mstislav walked to the shack, changing as quickly as possible and chose his weapon. A whip strapped to his silver thighs, daggers strapped to his wrists, and a simple broadsword tucked into his belt. And, if Mstislav managed to sneak chakram into the back of his belt, it was no one else’s business.

 

Mstislav walked up to the platform, small steps leading up to Okoye and her spear. There were daggers strapped to her thighs, and they shone dangerously against the grey sky of Russia. Okoye raised her hand to the air, looking sickly as the sky colored her skin, three fingers pointing to the sky.

 

Mstislav nodded, and one finger went down.

 

_Three._

 

_Two._

 

_One._

 

_Now._

 

Okoye instantly bolted towards him, spear sliding close to his ear as his hand pushed it away. Mstislav grabbed a dagger from his wrist, slicing towards her to only cut her clothes.

 

Okoye turned, dagger sparking against her armor, her leg kicking against his calf. Mstislav fell onto his left knee, using the momentum to throw his body behind Okoye and slice at the clothing behind her knee. The clothing turned a bright yellow, showing where he hit, and knocking Okoye onto her knees as Mstislav got up.

 

There were vibranium made pedestals surrounding the platform, reacting to vibranium fiber clothes showing each hit without breaking the clothes; It kept the palace from replacing the training equipment constantly.

 

Mstislav punched Okoye, and she grabbed his fist, flipping him over her shoulder and onto the ground. Okoye straddled him, locking his arms in place, and held a dagger to his throat.

 

“ _Again._ ” She said. “ _Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.”_ Each time Okoye won, so did Mstislav. They continued until Mstislav couldn’t, out of breath but back in the hang of melee-fighting. Mstislav never used his vibranium chakram.

 

Okoye and Mstislav never noticed T’Challa and Nakia watching them with a smile on their faces; The duo was too caught up laughing from the adrenaline rush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: Len0306a
> 
> Please leave a kudos and comment on your way out!
> 
> Love, Lena/Lee.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a kudos on your way out! 
> 
> <3


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